The Twilight 25
by poppyandpeony
Summary: Twenty five prompts over the next three months. One shots and drabbles covering various genres. Please check individual chapters for ratings and pairings though I can't seem to stay away from Edward and Bella no matter how hard I try .
1. Fragments

Here you will find one-shots & drabbles (100-word pieces) based on twenty-five pre-determined one-word prompts. Please note that these are meant to be standalone pieces rather than chapters in a story. The deadline for all 25 pieces is April 1st.

For more information on voting, other participants, and recommendations please visit:

**thetwilight25(dot)livejournal(dot)com**

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The Twilight Twenty-Five  
**Prompt: Fragments  
Pen name: poppyandpeony  
Pairing: Edward/Bella  
Rating: T

Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: I recommend using the 1/2 view for this one.

* * *

**Fragments**

**A Story in Postcards and Paper**

Seattle, WA_  
Postcard: Greetings from The Space Needle!_

8/26/09

By the time you get this, I'll be somewhere in the Midwest, but I just wanted to say thank you…for everything. I know you wanted me to go to UW, wanted me to stay a little closer to home, but I need to see what's out there for me. And I'm scared as hell, but I can't let that stop me. Not anymore. I could have driven myself, too, but I know you were just trying to keep me safe. And you're right. Dr. Cullen's son seems like a nice enough guy—a little uptight, but nice (then again, what else can you expect from a Princeton boy?).

I love you, Charlie.

Wait.

I love you, Dad.

-Bella.

P.S. Edward told me to tell you the gas money you gave him is inside your coat pocket.

* * *

Somewhere in Montana_  
Journal_

8/26/09

This is stupid.

Trying to write in a moving car is stupid. And trying to keep a diary for fourteenth time is probably stupid, too.

Fucking Artist's Way.

I don't know why this is always so difficult for me. Maybe because I feel like I'm talking to myself, or I won't have anything to say, or I'll go super-crazy and start acting like this is another person.

Or maybe I'm just worried that, years from now, when I read these words again I will find that my thoughts were, in fact, as ridiculous and naive as I always feared them to be.

But if I can't do this, if I can't have some profound musings during what is such a monolithic milestone in my life. If I can't say something about moving two thousand miles away while greens and browns fly by me and give way to something, anything, else, then how can I ever hope to call myself a writer?

Or maybe I've just read _On the Road_ too many times.

* * *

Somewhere (Still) in Montana_  
Journal_

8/26/09: Attempt #2

Dear Diary (Puke)

There is a boy next to me. He's pretty and makes me feel uneasy. Apparently, we went to school together when he was a senior and I was a sophomore, but I think I would have remembered him. Or at least I would have if I had spent any time outside of the school library.

When I said I was going to Vassar he gave me this strange look—like he was surprised or—I don't know—impressed?

I kind of liked it.

His name is Edward, and I like that, too. I don't know him well—at all really—except for this:

1. His car is a lot nicer than my truck

2. He refuses to let me touch the ipod

3. We're going in the same direction

Actually, I'm not too sure about number three.

* * *

Miles City, MT_  
Letter_

8/27/09

Jasper—

I thought it only fitting that my first letter written on the stationary you gave me be for you. Especially given the fact that said stationary has pictures of naked chicks all over it. I'm still trying to figure out where in Forks you managed to procure porn-tionary. Maybe Newton's?

I miss you.

I know I only left yesterday and I thought it would be at least three days before I started really missing you, but here I am wondering what you did today. Which is ridiculous because I know exactly what you did.

You woke up and smoked two Parliament Lights before going to the diner to sit in the second booth from the left and flirt with Gladys for extra whipped cream on your pancakes.

But what did you do when I didn't meet you there, my dear friend? Did you build your own castle out of coffee creamers and knock it down yourself? Did you play Patsy Cline on the jukebox instead of Johnny Cash?

I like to think you got on your bike and headed South, and somewhere near Vegas you met a fairy princess who calls you "handsome" and gets you to quit smoking. You let her put her arms around your stomach and you eventually trade in that rickety old motorcycle for a VW bus because you worry about her safety. And I don't hear from you for months until I get a soggy letter in the mail postmarked from Memphis.

I hope that you did.

Promise me that you will.

-Bella

P.S. I got you a present, but I can't send it until I get to New York so I'll just tell you what it is. It's a t-shirt that says "Montana is for Butte-holes." It was purchased at a gas station. I am not joking.

* * *

Dickinson, ND_  
Journal_

Dear Something (Should I Name You? Oh God. You are not a person. I am not Anne Frank.),

He's snoring right now and I find it adorable.

This confuses me.

The woman at the registration desk was doing this weird thing with her eye when she was talking to Edward. I think she thought she was winking, but it kind of looked like she had something stuck in there.

Then she called us Mr. and Mrs. Cullen, and I think I died a little bit. And then during my pre-menopausal hot flash, he saw me blushing and then he started blushing too.

Awesome.

He was probably thinking of his insanely beautiful girlfriend back home: a Princeton girl who wears equestrian boots and tights in the winter with a wool pea coat and a cashmere scarf.

His future wife.

He's hugging his pillow right now. Dreaming of her, I'm sure.

* * *

Bismarck, ND_  
Napkin from Kroll's Diner_

Be it known that Edward Cullen lost the spoon-on-the-nose contest and will therefore allow Bella Swan complete control of the iPod for two consecutive hours without groaning, sighing or rolling his eyes—even if she plays Liz Phair (which she most assuredly will).

Signed: Edward Cullen, 8-28-09 (Are you sure you're not pre-law, Bella?)

* * *

St. Cloud, MN_  
Letter_

Dear Jesus,

Please forgive me for I have sinned.

I have defiled this city with a dirty sex fantasy.

Starring Edward.

I couldn't help it. I don't even know what happened (I don't think I've ever had a proper sex fantasy before). But his hands were clutching the steering wheel in this really firm but gentle way and every so often he'd run his fingers through his mess of hair and then I'd imagine I was doing it instead and then (oh my god) he knew all the words to _Fuck and Run_ and he was singing them and the way he said the word _fuck_, the way his lips surrounded the word _fuck_, I began to feel hot and strange and it was almost like that time Jasper showed me lesbian porn but different and better and I made him pull over into a rest stop before I came just from rubbing my legs together.

That's why I'm writing this while sitting on a toilet.

I can't go back out there.

Please give me the strength to go back out there.

Thank you.

Sorry for never really going to church or anything.

Take care,

Bella

P.S. I also apologize for the obscenity of my language—and of this stationary.

* * *

Madison, Wisconsin_  
Placemat from Culver's_

Things Edward has said that make me feel tingly:

"Ever since Europe, I need mayonnaise with my French fries. Are you disgusted?"

"My mom always smells like sugar cookies, and she never bakes anything."

"Belle and Sebastian is for wimpy old hipsters. Let's listen to _Tigermilk_."

"I took a Women's Studies class for a girl. We broke up before the midterm, but I got an A in the class. It was fascinating. I felt like an asshole, but it was fascinating."

"George was always my favorite."

"Natalie Portman is so hot I want to punch myself in the face."

"The first time I saw a cadaver, I wanted to throw up."

"My last girlfriend was…boring."

"Sometimes I just want someone to read to me."

"I remember you, I think. You were always going to the library when I was walking out of Calculus."

"Bella"

* * *

Chicago, IL_  
Cosmopolitan Magazine: August 2009 Edition_

**Note to self: This is the stupidest thing you have ever done. Ever.**

_Are You In Love?_

_Could you be falling in love? You have told yourself that it is just a crush. After all, you are just really good friends, right? Though a relationship with him would be nice and he is the right kind of guy... No, you're being silly; he is completely wrong for you - isn't he? Figuring out if it is love is never easy. Instead of questioning yourself, take this quiz and find out if what you feel is real._

_1. While shopping, you spot a pretty outfit. It isn't your usual jeans and camisole, but you buy the outfit anyway._

_True _

_**False **_**(What the fuck is a camisole?)**

_2. Your heart pounds a little faster when you get new mail from him - and you haven't even opened the mail yet._

_**True **_**(I did keep that note he left me about going out to grab coffee. He drew a happy face with googly eyes and a tongue)**

_False_

_3. You can't help but feel good when he's around, and just the thought of seeing him again makes you happy._

_**True **_**(Just…true**_**)**_

_False_

_4. When you doodle on a piece of paper, you find yourself writing his initials. Then you add yours._

_**True **_**(Oh my God.)**

_False_

_5. You calculate the number of childbearing years you have left and try to imagine if he would be a good father._

_True _

_**False **_**(Oh. My. God.)**

_6. You bring up the subject of a boyfriend and dating with your kids or your best friend to get their opinion._

_True _

_**False **_**(WWJD=What Would Jasper Do?)**

_7. People are starting to ask you if you are a couple because you are always together._

_**True**_** (like the sketchy eye lady at the hotel desk?)**

_False_

_8. You buy a little present to say "thanks" and leave it on his desk or somewhere he will notice._

_**True **_**(This morning, I gave him the really good doughnut and kept the cake one for myself even though it was dry and had no icing—could that be considered a gift?)**

_False_

_9. He forgot a t-shirt at your place, and you keep putting off giving it back._

_**True **_**(as evidenced by the Princeton, New Jersey shirt currently balled up and tell-tale hearting in the corner of my suitcase) **

_False_

_**Number True: **_**6**

_**Number False: **_**3**

**Oh Fuck.**

* * *

Cleveland, OH_  
On back of Vassar acceptance letter_

If Jasper were here, he would tell me to:

1. Brush my hair and put on that one shirt that makes my boobs look good

2. Play Merle and dance

3. Do a shot from the bottle without plugging my nose

4. Stop being a pussy and tell him already

5. Get the fuck out of Cleveland as soon as possible

* * *

Scranton, PA_  
Letter_

Dear Edward,

You're probably wondering why this letter has pictures of naked women on it. More that that, however, you're probably wondering why you're reading a letter from me postmarked in Scranton when you more than likely dropped me off at my dorm room in Poughkeepsie yesterday or the day before. I'm just better at writing things than saying them, and I'm better at writing with a pen than a keyboard. Hence, the pornographic stationary and what I am about to say.

I think I might be in love with you.

I know. It's weird. Because I've only known you for a few days if you don't count the days we supposedly went to school together.

I think it's true, though.

And that's why I was quiet for the rest of the drive and why I seemed "nervous" as you so astutely put it, and why I was sitting on my hands until they fell asleep.

I was trying very hard to control myself and this whole being in love business, and you make it very difficult for me to do that. So I'm sorry if I was being strange, but that's how I feel: strange and different and sort of new.

I expect nothing from you, by the way. I've seen a few romantic comedies and I know how the final scene is supposed to play out if any of this weren't real. You would show up at my doorstep in the rain holding flowers and you would drop them and we would kiss. But it's August, so there won't be any rain and there certainly don't need to be any sweeping romantic movie gestures.

I've just never been in love before and it feels really good and really terrifying and very different from anything else I've ever felt and I think that if I don't write it down, it won't be as real. And I guess I hope that someday someone feels this good about me. And if they do, I hope that they would tell me.

So that's why I'm doing this.

You know, treat others the way you want to be treated and all that.

So…thank you? I think that's the correct closing for this situation.

Or, you know, take care.

Talk to you soon (not that you should feel in any way obligated to talk to me or anything. I mean you can if you want to, of course. Just don't feel like you have to talk to me because I'm in love with you).

Fuck.

-Bella

* * *

Poughkeepsie, NY_  
Inside a paper airplane landing next to Bella Swan's feet_

Bella,

I used to wait one minute and thirty seconds after the bell rang. I asked Mr. Banner questions I already knew the answer to. He thought I was an exceptionally dedicated Calculus student.

Really, I was just stalling to make sure I would walk out the door at the same time this strange, beautiful girl went into the library. She always had her head down, and it was everything in me not to brush her hair out of her face.

She was so determined to stay hidden, though. As though she had nothing important to say.

Silly, strange, beautiful girl.

Now look up so I can kiss you.

-Edward

-The End-


	2. Slip

**The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Slip  
Pen name: poppyandpeony  
Pairing: Edward/Bella  
Rating: K+**

**

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**

She sees it during one of the trips she often takes downtown--now that she is allowed to go outside by herself.

It's in the window of a tiny vintage store. Lace and silk and old and him.

"It's from 1918," the saleswoman says smugly, and it takes all of her strength to reach for her wallet at human speed.

She fingers the fabric, soft and yellowing against pale white stone, and imagines what he will do when he sees her in it with her hair curled and pinned just so.

"Pity silk tears so easily," the saleswoman says.

Pity indeed.


	3. Honest

**The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Honest  
Pen name: poppyandpeony  
Pairing: Edward/Bella  
Rating: T  
**

* * *

They are walking together when she slips in a wayward puddle and he reaches out to catch her.

He sighs.

She's doing it again.

This morning she stayed in the shower until the scalding water ran cold. And last night as she moaned and gasped for unnecessary breath, he held her face between his hands and felt the rouge she had painted there.

Forever is far more beautiful, he thinks.

But it's impossible to call her a liar when she is kneeling beneath him, clutching small hands to his chest, and smiling as rain turns to ice against her skin.


	4. Earnest

**The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Earnest  
Pen name: poppyandpeony  
Pairing: Edward/Bella  
Rating: M  
**

A/N: I have two reasons to celebrate. One: The idea for this story has been rattling around in my brain since the Age of Edward contest (about a thousand years ago) but it never saw the light of day. Now, it's finally done. Two: This story contains my very first lemon (to every writer who ever said writing sex is difficult: you weren't kidding). Cheers.

* * *

_Earnest: characterized by a firm and humorless belief in the validity of your opinions; something of value given by one person to another to bind a contract; businesslike: not distracted by anything unrelated to the goal_

**May 15****th****, 1969**

**2:30 P.M.**

Sproul Hall is crowded, thick with the muggy almost-heat of May and the smell of too many bodies with too much intention. Edward sighs, clutching his notebook in one hand, tape recorder in the other, and eyes the staircase wearily.

Another fucking sit in.

The heat is constricting, and he realizes too late that a long-sleeved shirt and tie were not the best choices for blending in with the protesting throng, but he refuses to turn back now. The liberal prick editor-in-chief of _The Daily Californian_ would be all too pleased if Edward missed his deadline.

His fingers play with the knot in his tie, and he considers removing the damn thing altogether, then exhales sharply—defiantly. He has never lied in his life, and while giving a false impression isn't exactly a lie, it's close enough. The tape recorder makes his motivations plain, and he's not here on some undercover assignment.

Sweat runs in beads down his neck, but he tightens the tie, straightens it, and walks on.

The first step is occupied by a half-naked girl with hairy legs that wrap around some idiot with a goatee and a shirt that says "No Nukes."

Edward sighs. Fucking predictable.

He says "excuse me," but they ignore him. Hairy Legs has her hands in fists and keeps repeating words like "the movement" and "fascist pigs" while the goateed idiot nods his head and closes his eyes.

The latest edition of _The Daily Californian_ lies between them, and Edward smirks as he recognizes his words as the source of their anger.

"_Recent comments by Governor Reagan calling Cal Berkeley "a haven for communist sympathizers, protesters and sex deviants," have angered students and faculty alike. If anything, the governor was too lenient in his appraisal. In fact, the hordes that protest outside Sproul Hall are far more frightening—these people are communists and sex deviants fighting for a cause too complex for them to comprehend, much less criticize."_

Edward wonders if he should make an effort to cover his face, but he sees that they both have their eyes closed as their fists pound a ridiculous rhythym, and he takes the opportunity to skirt past them.

Their blindness is fitting, he thinks.

It's not that Edward has never been to one of these before. It's that he's been to too many. And it's the same shit every time: marijuana smoke clouds the air and seeps into his clothes, awful musicians with terrible facial hair butcher Bob Dylan on rusty guitars, and spaced-out girls so far gone on LSD writhe in dances that make his skin crawl.

This is what he's been trying to get people to understand: the truth.

Because the truth is that this is not a protest. It's a party.

Rebellion, not revolution.

Performed by fools who don't know the difference.

He finally finds space between some kid attempting his best Jim Morrison impression (and failing miserably) and a mousy brunette who look nothing short of terrified.

He inhales secondhand smoke from a passing joint and holds his breath, dreading the sickly smell that will follow him home.

Jesus. Maybe he should just go home.

It's not like he's going to get anything new anyway. Every time he comes to one of these "gatherings," he hopes to meet someone, anyone, who will help him to understand the point of all this. Instead, he gets a cavalcade of "make love, not war" and "give peace a chance."

From his new perch, Edward scans the crowd and rolls his eyes as he predicts what they will say.

No-Nukes Goateed Idiot: "The Vietnam War is just another byproduct of the military-industrial complex."

Half-Naked Hairy Legs: "War will never cease as long as the white Anglo male controls society."

Jim Morrison look-a-like: "We're all just particles, man, floating in space."

Bullshit.

Edward begins to step back down, telling himself that if he leaves now he can get a slice at Blondie's before heading back to his dorm room in time to make early deadline for next week's edition.

He steps on something soft at the same time he hears a girls say "Ow!"

"I'm so sorry," he apologizes as he recognizes the mousy-haired brunette from earlier, and bends down to look at her foot to make sure it's okay.

Her voice is shaking when she says. "It's okay," and Edward looks up to study her face.

She looks scared—terrified, really, and Edward surmises that she must be new at this.

Perfect.

The new ones haven't had time to memorize the pamphlets or study the talking points, and are so eager to see their name in print that they end up divulging more than they probably should.

He rises and flashes her the crooked smile his mother once told him made girls "swoon."

"Hello, my name is Edward Cullen. I write for _The Daily Californian_. Can I ask you a few questions?"

"Umm…I don't know," her eyes darting wildly as she pushes her glasses up her nose.

Edward hides his scoff with a wider, faker smile.

"I just have a few questions. A lot of people are saying the anti-war movement is damaging both this campus as well as this country. I'm offering you a forum to defend your position."

He always pulls this question out when they seem scared. It makes the new ones feel like they're doing something—actually having an impact.

Fools.

Mousy girl looks quickly from Edward's face to somewhere behind him, her eyes pleading for help.

"Hey Angela, is this _man_ bothering you?"

The voice behind him is soft, but the way she says "man" makes Edward roll his eyes.

A militant one.

Fantastic.

Edward takes a deep breath, preparing himself to face the Hydra. When he whips his head around, he comes face to face with a pair of warm brown eyes that instantly turn cold.

"Excuse me, miss. There's no need to--"

And then he has to stop talking because he finally sees the rest of her. Her long brown hair is parted in the middle and falls straight down the sides of her face, a curtain framing soft pink cheeks and lips that skims the belt wrapped around her small waist. His eyes follow the blue fabric of her dress downward and find pale thighs and a boot-clad foot that starts tapping. So they retreat to see arms crossed, resting beneath—

Shit. He's looking at her breasts.

"Can I help you?"

He hears her, but even louder is the voice in his head screaming _"Look up! Look up! Stop staring at her breasts!"_ When he finally does find his way back to her face, he can't help but marvel at this picture of sweetness belied only by the strength in her eyes.

"Can I help you?" Her voice is louder this time. Angrier.

He has to clear his throat. He actually has to clear his throat.

"Yes, miss, my name is Edward Cullen and--"

"I know who you are."

He feels his wonder give way to pride, feels his shoulders straighten, his chest rise up, his lips forming into that crooked smile.

She recognizes him.

"Every emerging generation thinks they can change the world, and certainly this one is no different. In fact, the only thing that sets these attention-seekers apart is how pathetic their course of action is. These so-called revolutionaries seem more interested in getting high and wreaking havoc than ending the war. One can only believe that once the war is over they will find some other cause to pretend to fight for.

That's you, right?"

She memorized his words? The smile grows wider as he nods.

And then the strength in her eyes becomes fury, and he can't help but say,

"Sorry about that."

Her eyebrows rise as his shoulders sink.

He surprised her.

But not nearly as much as he surprised himself.

Edward Cullen apologized for his column. His work. His words.

And he's never done that before.

He tries to justify it, telling himself that maybe he didn't actually apologize for the column. Maybe it was just a delayed apology for staring at her breasts.

Yes, he concludes. It must be the breast thing, and this conclusion reassures him, motivates him to move forward, back to business.

"I was hoping you could answer a few of my questions."

"Well that depends, Edward Cullen, are you going to print this?"

"Of course."

"Then let's sit down."

She grabs his hand and pulls him through the crowd, leaving Mousy Brunette behind. They climb the steps through smoke and music and yelling, but he only sees her brown hair leading him forward. He feels fire in his palm and wonders if she feels it, too.

She stops when they reach the top step, and lets go of his hand to motions for him to sit down.

His fingers tingle from where she was holding them and he tries to soothe it by running his fingers through his hair. Edward busies himself with his tape recorder, dropping the microphone a couple times and saying "sorry" more in one minute than he probably has in his entire life. He exhales, letting go of the breath at the same time that he realizes he was holding it. As he presses play, he stares at his knees in an attempt to get a hold of himself.

And that's when he realizes that he's _sitting_.

At a _sit in_.

Shit.

"Edward?"

She's smiling like she won a bet, and he can't tell if it's pissing him off or turning him on, but his pants would vote for the latter. He watches her hand tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear, and he doesn't know why but he really wants to do that for her, to see if her face feels as soft as it looks—

And he's staring again.

"Edward?"

He tells himself to get it together, that she's just a girl, that all this weird shit is only happening because she looks nicer than most of the burned out space cadets he's used to seeing here.

And because he hasn't gotten laid since he broke up with Tanya last summer.

Yes. That's it.

He can look at her now.

"Yeah. Sorry. I was just expecting--"

"Bare feet and body paint?"

He wants to say "of course not," but he can't because he actually did expect that and he doesn't want to lie. He never lies.

Not to mention that the thought of her naked and covered in body paint is going straight to his—

"Edward?"

She's giggling at him, and he asks himself if hearing her laugh is worth putting up with her mockery.

And it is.

He has to look away again, and uses the excuse of having to set the microphone between them on the step.

"So, what is your name?" His eyes are back on hers, because he really wants to know this, like it's the most important question he's ever asked anyone.

"Bella Swan"

Beautiful.

Beautiful?

Jesus.

"And what are you doing here Bella Swan?"

"Well, I don't know Edward, are any of us really _here_?"

She's staring off into the space just above his shoulder. He looks behind him. Nothing.

Oh dear God. He knew it. She's one of those fucking Timothy O' Leary kool-aid drinkers having some sort of flashback, and he's talked with enough of these freaks to know that at any moment this could turn violent, and he's not going to take another one accidentally punching him in the nose again.

But she seemed so different, and though he's disappointed he wasted fifteen minutes, he takes comfort in the fact that he was right all along.

"Okay, thank you for your time Miss Swan. I'll go find someone else."

He gets up to leave, but her hand is touching his again and it burns, and he can't bring himself to move away.

"Edward, take it easy. I was just kidding."

"Oh. Sorry."

"You apologize a lot. What exactly are you sorry for? The fact that you don't have a sense of humor? Or the outfit you obviously stole from someone at a Reagan rally? Nice tie. Did your mother teach you how to tie it?"

He glares at her, straightens the tie, again.

"She did."

"Oh." Her cheeks blaze and she mumbles to herself something about not even being able to insult people correctly, and he finds it…endearing?

Christ.

"Now Miss Swan--"

"Bella."

"Umm yes, Bella. Why are you here?"

This time there is no smile, no hint of an impending joke or sarcastic remark about his tie. Her eyes change, become more focused, fierce. She leans closer to the tape recorder—and subsequently, closer to him.

"We're here because the Vietnam War is wrong."

Her voice is no longer playing, holds no hint of the sarcastic girl with breathy staccato laughter.

And he kind of likes it.

"Are you referring to the war that is currently aiding the Vietnamese people in driving out communism, and thus preventing it from spreading to America and the rest of the world?"

He didn't mean to say it like that. He prefers to keep his opinions to himself during interviews—maintain some journalistic neutrality—but he can't seem to stop himself around her.

If he thought her eyes couldn't get darker, he was wrong.

"No, actually, I'm referring to the war that is causing the massacre of innocent men, women, and children, but thanks for your journalistic neutrality."

Shit.

"I'm s—"

"Save it, Edward. Why did you come here? To pick a fight? To continue to use your paper as a forum to paint us as freaks? Is this just going to be another article about rampant drug use and sex?"

When she says the word "sex," he looks at her mouth and he has to gulp. But he recovers.

"Would I be wrong? Look around you. This looks more like a fraternity party than a political assembly."

He gestures to the crowd below.

She shakes her head and he can't help but stare at her hair as it catches in the light.

"What do you hate so much?"

He wants to say that he hates this bullshit music and these ridiculous people, but he realizes that it's really not true. He also wants to touch her hair to see if it feels as soft as it looks, but he knows that he can't.

"I don't hate anyone."

"Your words say otherwise."

"I don't like people looking for a cause to make them feel important even while it causes others pain, condemning the same system that allows them to protest."

She pauses, purses her lips. Her voice is stronger now, more sure.

"But when that system is corrupted, it is our right, it is our duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for our future security.' We don't just have a right to protest immoral acts by the government; we have a responsibility."

Now his voice is raised and his hands gesture angrily around him, nearly touching her.

"How can you quote the Constitution on the same steps where you burn American flags?"

But she is not one to be defeated. And she gets closer.

"How can you defend a government that would send you to die in an immoral war?"

Her face is so close to his and her passion is painted in reds and pinks on her cheeks and lips, and he almost wants to keep pissing her off just to see if she can get more beautiful. The breath he takes is ragged and full of freesia and smoke and her, so he turns away before he speaks.

"I know that a war that is protecting the southern Vietnamese people from communism, that is protecting democracy here in America _is _the right thing, the moral thing to do."

Her voice is a whisper behind him.

"You don't know anything, Edward."

She starts picking at imaginary things on her dress, looking anywhere but at him, looking so much smaller, so different, than the brave young girl who dragged him up the steps ten minutes ago.

And it's all his fault.

He should leave now.

But he doesn't want to.

Because he wants to know her.

Why a girl in a little blue dress with a luminous face and deep eyes counts herself among the same people who overturn police cars and dance naked on the steps of city hall, why she seems to belong both here and somewhere so much better all at the same time—

But most of all, he wants to know why it feels like his whole world shifted in the very moment he sat down beside her.

So he stays. And he asks again.

"You know, I didn't ask why everyone else was here. I asked why you were here."

She doesn't respond immediately, and he watches her take an unnecessarily deep breath.

"You think my reasons are different than anyone else's?"

Her voice is louder this time, stronger. And he's thankful for it.

"Are they?"

He knows she might get offended, but he'd rather make her angry than sad.

Her eyes turn away, and her fists are white and shaking as they clench harder on her skirt.

"Of course not."

He knows that she's lying.

But he doesn't care.

Because they're talking again.

And right now, though it contradicts everything inside him, he wants to hear her voice more than he wants to hear the truth.

"So you're a journalism major, Edward?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Yes."

He laughs and he knows she's trying to change the subject, but he lets her.

For now.

"And what are you, Political Science?"

Her eyes are dry now. And curious.

"Why do you say that?"

"You quote the Declaration of Independence like it's _Reader's Digest_."

She smiles, and he gets a fleeting urge to keep it there forever.

"Creative Writing."

Interesting.

"So you write stories?"

"You make is sound so juvenile."

"Not at all. I love fiction."

"This from the man who said that "only truth…?'"

Ouch. He had gone a little overboard for that column, but he would never admit it.

"Are you making fun of me?"

"Yes."

And his pride is wounded so he turns away, playing with the knot in his tie and staring at the tape recorder, wondering how the hell he's going to turn this one in.

He's listening to the Jim Morrison look-a-like yelping "One Tin Soldier" and trying to think of something to ask her when he feels her lips close to his ear.

"So prove it."

When he turns his head around, their lips are nearly touching and she jumps back. She's blushing and he tries to figure out how it's possible for someone to be prettier than they were five minutes ago.

When he says, "Prove what?" his voice cracks.

Great.

She still looks nervous, and his discomfort softens at the thought of hers.

"You, um, you said you liked reading fiction. What's your favorite?"

"Novel?"

"Yeah."

He smiles.

"Are we talking 'of all time' or the last thing I read?"

"Either. Whichever you want. Both."

He laughs.

"I just finished Slaughterhouse Five, though I didn't care for it too much. Vonnegut…of all time? On the Road."

'Really? "The Reagan look-a-like goes for the Beats?"

"You're surprised." He thought she would be. People who ask that question usually are, but she's the first person to ask him that question so he jumps at the chance to explain himself to her.

"It's actually a common misconception that the Beats started the hippie movememtn. But Kerouac was different. As much as Kerouac is revered by hippies, they revolted him. On the Road is a valentine to America, a depiction of moments in one man's life. It's honest. Real. True."

She's thinking, looking ahead and smiling, so he does, too.

She's reciting: "Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?"

"Do you memorize everything you read?"

"Only things I like."

He smirks, and waits for her to realize her mistake.

She doesn't.

Interesting.

"Favorite band?" they both say it as the same time and smile.

"The Beatles," and they say that at the same time too.

She smiles again.

"Yeah."

"Favorite album?"

"Revolver." He shakes his head, and he doesn't have to say anything for her to see that it's his too.

"Favorite song?"

"Blackbird. Yours?"

"Paperback Writer."

She's laughing and he doesn't understand why until he really begins to think about, and he's smiling too, but not laughing, just watching her as she throws her head back, eyes closed and mouth open and sweet and wonderful.

He only looks away once, just to make sure the tape recorder is still going, because her laugh might be the greatest sound he's ever heard.

**6:30 P.M.**

They are singing "Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds" and her eyes are closed and he is getting lost in the way her tongue sticks out between her teeth when she says "Lucy."

He stops.

He shakes his head. He's never felt so distracted before, and he doesn't like it.

He remembers the reason he's here to begin with.

The newspaper. The column.

The truth.

It's time. He's here for a job.

And he knows she's holding back.

Better do it now, he tells himself, before she unravels him completely (though if he's being honest, he's not entirely sure she hasn't done so already).

He knows his face has changed. The softness he felt in her presence replaced by hard lines and angles, even harsher than normal, steel to block the warm tingles and deep breaths she so easily summons from him.

She opens her eyes, finally realizing she's been singing by herself.

When she does see him, her smile vanishes.

She looks afraid. He tries not to care.

And fails.

"Bella, some people would say that you hate this country."

Her defenses are up in an instant: arms wrapped around knees, body closed off, eyes cold.

"Some people?"

"Yes. Governor Reagan just said…"

"Would _you_ say that, Edward?"

She's looking at him again, and he can't tell is she wants him to say "yes" or "no," so he just does what he always does and tells the truth.

"I—I don't know."

And he honestly doesn't. It was easy before, to watch these freaks flip over cars, set things on fire, and call them anarchists and burn-outs. But her bright face and warm eyes hold only sincerity. It doesn't seem like it's possible for her to hate anything.

She moves closer to him and it forces his eyes away from her face and onto her hand that is slowly reaching toward him. He can't seem to stop his fingers from finding hers, but before they can, her arm disappears beneath his leg.

He hears a click.

She shut off the tape recorder.

And now she's closer than she's ever been, and he wants to sit on his hand to keep it from humiliating him again.

"I don't hate this country. I love it. I love it so much that I can't stand that it has been consumed by men who would send it's own children, it's own boys, to be killed in a meaningless war. And I am willing to stand on a line or sit in a stairway or scream in a street because I can—and I have to believe that doing this is so much better than doing nothing at all."

Her face is bright and he counts seven freckles on her nose before she scoots away from him.

Where she was at the beginning.

He has to say something.

"You don't want that on the record? It was pretty good." And he gestures to the tape recorder.

"Do you believe that I'm telling the truth, Edward?"

"Yes." And he means it.

"Then that's enough for me."

He's curious now. She can't possibly mean it. No one is that idealistic.

"Really? You convince one person that you're not full of shit and it's enough."

"Not just any person, Edward. You."

"But I still don't agree with you."

"Yes, but you believe me. You don't think I'm some freak or sex deviant. You listened. You understood. There's hope in that."

"And that's enough for you?"

She's sad again and he wants to punch himself in the nose.

"It has to be."

He wants to stop, to change the subject, to fix this, but he wants answers even more.

"Why do you believe that it's possible for you to change anything? That one person or one group of students screaming on stairs can have an effect on anything?"

She smiles.

"My mother."

"Tell me about her."

"Honestly, I think it started as a reason for her to get out of the house. In high school, she wanted to come here to Berkeley, actually, but her parents wouldn't allow it. She could have worked, and saved up the money, I guess, but she was pregnant with my brother Jake by the time she turned 18 and then she really couldn't go anywhere anymore."

She stops. Breathes. And he's glad she's still smiling.

"She used to put flowers in my hair, and tell me about all the places I could go. We'd look at maps and she'd point to Indonesia, to Brazil, to Fiji and we'd put pins on the most exotic ones and pretend we were going there."

Her smile falters.

"Then, she started really leaving. For days, then weeks at a time. She was going to Civil Rights rallies all over the country. She marched on Washington in '63."

"So your activism is hereditary?"

"Not exactly." She laughs.

"My father is a straight-ticket conservative. He never understood why she wanted to do so much. He's not a racist; he's just a simple guy—doesn't like to trouble the water if he doesn't have to. Like I said, I think she just needed a reason to get out of the house, couldn't handle small town life. But he did support her—paid for her bus ticket to D.C. to watch King give his speech, and when it came on television, he bowed his head like he was in church."

"He sounds like a good man."

"He is. He took care of me, of us. But when my brother—"

Her arms jerk closed around her knees.

"—my brother Jake wanted to sign up to fight in Vietnam, my mother offered to drive him to Canada instead, and that was the last straw. She hadn't been home for a long time, and Charlie was angry. He said he wouldn't allow her to disgrace our family by disgracing this country. He and Jake went to the recruitment office that afternoon, she and I danced in the living room, and she was gone the next morning."

Her voice is softer now, and she's wistful as she hugs her knees and looks at nothing.

"I always knew that she was going to leave us. But I think it was the "allow" part that made her slam the door."

Edward is incredulous and a little angry, but he can't tell if he's more upset that a mother would abandon her family, or that anyone would abandon Bella.

He tries to tread softly.

"Your father must not have liked you going to Berkeley."

Her smile is empty now.

He doesn't like it.

"No, he didn't, but I got a full ride, and it was more prestigious than UW, so he couldn't argue. Besides, he didn't have any reason to believe I would follow in Renee's footsteps. When I was a freshman, I was pretty—uncontroversial."

"And what changed?"

She breathes deeply, and he watches the skin on her knuckles turn white.

"Jake never made it home from Vietnam, Edward."

He knows the truth now.

And there's absolutely nothing he can say.

So he doesn't.

"When I went home for his funeral, Charlie asked me to stay. I would have done it, too. I even signed up for classes at UW. But two weeks before classes started, Charlie came into my room with boxes and a picture of my mother.

He drove me here himself."

And now he knows at least one thing he can say. Because it's true.

"I'm glad you came back."

She inhales sharply and looks down.

His eyes follow hers and he's surprised to find his hand on her knee, but he keeps it there, willing to withstand the shock that comes with touching her if it means that she'll smile again.

She covers his hand with her own, and looks at him. Her eyes are wet, but she's not crying.

"Me too."

He sees curiosity in her face, a little fear, and something else. She seems lost again and he wants to bring her back.

And he's willing to do just about anything to see her smile again.

"My mother still ties my ties for me."

It works.

He's humiliated, but it works.

"It's not that I don't know how. It's just this thing she's done since I was little. I had to wear ties to school and she always did it for me. When I came here for school, she packed all my ties pre-knotted. I still try to keep them that way. It reminds me of her I guess."

"You really love her."

"Not so different from you, I guess."

She tilts her head, curious.

"You love your mother, too. You admire her for her kindness, her passion and eccentricities. You came back to Berkeley because of her."

She opens her mouth to protest, but he won't let her.

"I know how to tie my own ties, Bella. But I like to be reminded of my mother, too."

She stares at him, and he likes the way his eyes reflect back at him in hers.

He's talking to himself again, wondering how he can ask her to let him walk her back to her dorm. Maybe they can get coffee or something on the way, or maybe she's not even interested, or maybe she'll let him kiss the spot just below her ear that he hasn't been able to stop looking at for the past ten minutes.

He contemplates all of this and decides to just fucking ask her when something crashes and Bella gasps.

A table collapses and people are running down the steps them, away from the policemen in riot gear who are holding fire hoses and marching closer.

He stumbles over the tape recorder in his attempt to grab her, and he feels her hand help him keep his balance, but there is no time to say thank you because they are both running with hands held fast, down the steps and onto the street.

Fire hoses shower them in dirty water, and he knows that if it were only rain he would pick this girl up and spin her in his arms until they were dizzy and fell.

And then he would kiss her.

He hears nothing but the sound of their feet hitting the pavement. He could take the lead, but he likes watching her hair fly behind her and the way she keeps looking back at him.

She's the first to slow down, so he does the same, feeling the change from concrete to grass beneath his feet.

People's Park is deserted because of the riot. It's quiet here and he lets go of her hand.

And regrets it instantaneously.

Drops of water are falling from her hair down to her lips and their breathing is heavy, punctuated by sirens and screams and he doesn't realize he's saying it until he's already halfway through and by then he doesn't care because he's been lying to her since he sat down that step and he's tired of it.

"I don't understand this. I wear the same ties my mother has been laying on my bed for ten years. I'm going to school to be what I've wanted to be since I was ten years old. I always know what to say, and nothing ever surprises me, least of all myself. But I have no idea what I'm doing any more because you are fucking beautiful and you love Revolver and your family and when I touch you—"

"It burns."

And then she's in front of him and her lips are soft against his, but he's been waiting all day to do this so when her mouth opens he needs to taste her and his hands are hungry as they pull her closer.

"Edward, wait—"

"What?"

Her hands push against his chest and he curses at himself. He fucked up. It was too much too fast and now she's scared again.

"I just need to say that I'm sorry I said what you wrote is rubbish. I don't actually believe that. I love the way you write, how deeply you care, it reminds me of my father in a way, and I just—"

His anger with himself instantly subsides into amusement over the fact that he's not the only one who has no idea how to do this.

"Bella?"

"Yes?" She's biting her lower lip and he decides that is indeed possible for someone to be prettier than they were five minutes ago.

"I really don't want to talk about your father right now."

"Oh." She looks down again.

And he can't have that.

He places her hand beneath her chin and guides her face to his.

He doesn't look bewildered anymore; he looks sure.

Like she is the truth he seeks.

And he is the story she has been waiting to write.

Their clothes and skin are sticky as they collide with each other, falling onto the grass. She takes off his shirt. He takes off her dress. She smirks as she loosens and removes his tie.

He doesn't tell her that she's beautiful.

He doesn't have to.

His eyes are wonder and awe, and not just because of her creamy skin that glows in the moonlight and her hair that wraps around her head and breasts like she's a mermaid floating in blue water--but because she is offering all of this to him.

His hand is rough with dirt and grass as it slides across her belly and onto her breasts. Kneading her skin, ghosting her nipples while her breaths sing out in short, heavy gasps. He doesn't want to stop touching her, and she writhes beneath him, seeking more contact, and he smothers her body with own, skin against skin, water giving way to sweat, as they slide, rub, pull, grab.

He hasn't looked at her, hasn't spoken to her, because he thinks that if he did this would stop. They would realize the gravity of the situation, and would stop, and he can't, but he has to be sure.

"Bella, I can't stop, I—"

"Don't."

He looks at her, and the frantic writhing slows to a gentle rock between her legs as they look, feel, listen, learn.

The cold air gives her goosebumps, but to him they are braille and he is a blind man, searching the tiny peaks and valleys for the story of her heart.

Her breath keeps a steady tempo and when it speeds up he presses himself against her harder, feeling her warm and wet though his pants. When she comes, he marvels at her face, her teeth on her lip, her hand clutching her own breast as the other makes tunnels in his hair.

He kisses her. A chaste kiss that almost fools the sin that pools between them.

They lay there, and he is still, trying to focus on the way her body shudders beneath him rather than the fact that he's still painfully hard against her.

"Turn over." Her voice is muffled and he realizes it's because her head has burrowed against his neck.

"Huh?"

She just smiles and gently pushes on his shoulders, and he gasps as cool night air meets his fevered skin. He welcomes the grass beneath him, but welcomes her legs even more as they straddle his chest.

Christ, she's beautiful.

Her hair shields them, cocoons them in a world where there is only her lips kissing fire down his chest and fluttery eyelashes that follow, soothing the flame. She kisses him over his pants and he wants to be a gentleman and tell her that this isn't necessary, that she doesn't have to do this right now, but he really doesn't want to because, if he's being honest (and he always is), no one has ever done this to him before and he really wants her to be the first.

"Bella—"

'Shh." And her hand is on his mouth and all he can do is kiss it and moan because her other hand is unbuttoning his pants, touching the fucking epicenter of his universe.

He tries to watch her, but when her tongue finds him, he can only close his eyes and gasp, pulling up grass with his hands in a desperate attempt to keep from pulling her hair. Her mouth is hot and slick, and as she rises and falls, he feels the night breeze against him, cool then hot, cool then hot, and now his hands are holding on to the earth and finding no purchase there.

"Jesus Christ, Bella, I think you should—"

He doesn't really want her to stop, but nothing has ever felt this good, and he's too close and he wants to be inside her when he comes, and—

She stops.

"Okay."

Shit. He said that out loud.

But there's no time to explain that he didn't mean it, that it really doesn't have to be here, on the ground, like this, because when his eyes finally do open at the sound of her voice all he can see is her breasts and her face and her smile as she lowers herself onto him.

Hers is a quiet breath, a sigh of contentment.

His is a cry, an exclamation of birth.

She rocks against him and he meets her every time, his hands making a circuit from her hips to her thighs to her ass and back again, but it's not enough of her skin against his so he pulls himself up and holds onto her, arms enveloping her back as she continues her rhythm against his flesh.

Her breasts move up and down against his chest and he wants to tell her how much he likes it that he can't tell which heartbeat belongs to him and which one belongs to her, but his mouth can only emit feral growls and moans and "uhn's" so he looks into her eyes and hopes that she can find it there.

And there, mixed in with shallow breaths and hazy steam, she sees everything.

Then it happens all at once. He feels her muscles spasm around him, hears her give voice to shallow breath, and sees her face screw up into what might just be the most beautiful thing he has ever seen.

He is reborn. Risen. New.

He stays there inside her until they both silently agree this position is no longer comfortable. Their separation lasts only long enough for clothes to be thrown on, haphazardly buttoned, left unzipped, but it is still too long and she hurries to find her place against his chest, and sighs only when she lays her head above his heart. His hands grip her waist and he writes her name over and over again against her skin and tries unsuccessfully to remember what his life was before this moment, before her.

Bella.

Bella.

Bella.

Bella.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Can we stay here tonight?"

"Yes."

He pulls her closer and her fingers dance across his chest while she hums something that is both brand new and entirely familiar.

**9:30 P.M.**

He wakes when he hears her voice say his name.

"Edward."

She whimpers and feels blindly for his arms, sighing when she finds them already wrapped around her.

"Don't leave."

He holds her tighter and whispers in her ear.

"I won't."

And he sings her favorite song so she won't be afraid.

_Blackbird singing in the dead of night_

_Take these broken wings and learn to fly_

_All your life_

_You were only waiting for this moment to arise_

_  
_**4:30 A.M.**_  
_

"Hey!"

Edward stretches and wonders why his alarm went off when it's still dark and why his bed is so uncomfortable.

"Hey! Get up!"

His eyes are forced open by a shock of pain against his shoulder.

"Get up!"

A baton is in his face.

Shit.

He can handle this. He has to be able to handle this, and he stands up to shield Bella from the weapon that threatens to harm her.

"Sorry, officer, we tried to get away from the protest, and fell asleep waiting it out."

Bella stirs and reaches for him, and finding nothing, she whines.

"Edward, where are you"

The cop eyes Edward wearily.

"Just sleeping, huh?"

It is at this moment Bella bolts upright, exposing the better part of one breast, and Edward kneels down to cover her, only to see that his own shirt is buttoned terribly, both his pants and Bella's dress are unzipped, and his tie is wrapped around her wrist.

He doesn't want to lie to the officer, so he says nothing.

"Just get out of here. And if I catch you here again, I'll put you both in jail. You're lucky they're all full tonight."

"Thank you officer," and Bella is still to mortified to speak so she squeaks instead.

The cop turns away.

"Dirty fucking hippies."

They wait until he's out of earshot to begin laughing.

Her stomach growls.

She's mortified, but he's a little bit in love, and he holds out his hand to help her up.

"I think it's time for breakfast."

She nods and smiles, incredulous—and a little bit in love herself.

He stands behind her to zip up her dress, kneels to put her boots back on her feet, and kisses her calf before rising. He goes to button his shirt and she gently pushes his hands away, silently demanding that she do this part herself.

When she's finished, he grabs her hand to leave.

"Wait."

She brings the tie around his neck, and he can't help but smile as he watches her face concentrate on winding the silk around and over, pulling it through, and then perfecting what she created. Her hand smooths the tie down his wrinkled shirt and when she looks up at him, her eyes all watery and beautiful, she says,

"Now you're perfect."

He can't speak.

So instead he kneels in front of her, grasping onto the tiny white daisies that grow from the grass beneath their feet. When he rises, she's smiling and ready to take them in her hand until she sees the flowers disappear as he places them in her hair. He takes his time, making sure they'll stay tucked behind her ear.

"Now you are, too."

And when he takes her hand she really is crying, so he kisses her cheeks and lips until she stops.

They begin to walk, hands clasped together, stopping every few minutes to look, to make sure the other one is really there.

Then, they start running.

-The End-


	5. Prelude

**The Twilight Twenty-Five  
Prompt: Prelude  
Pen name: poppyandpeony  
Pairing: Bella/Edward  
Rating: K**

* * *

She sits in coach, knees brushing the seat in front of her, listening to a taped-together CD player, not knowing that this very moment can be traced back to that morning.

She remembers waking, gasping and sweaty from a strange dream.

She does not remember the mossy green forest, pale cold hands, and soft voice telling her to

_Please._

_Hurry._

She squints out the window, touches the glass, and says goodbye to the bronze and ochre painted over Phoenix.

But she will see them soon.

This time, in the face of a boy.

And she will dream of him again.


End file.
